


Worth Rescuing

by SylviaW1991



Series: Ineffable Ghost Wranglers [2]
Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: An Angel and A Demon Take a Holiday, Demon Antics, Entities, Ghosts, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Just other things happen, M/M, Mild Possession Attempt, Post-Canon, The hubbands are just on a date honestly, The scary tags really make this seem bad, They're just an angel and a demon who think humans are neat, Until it's a little less casual, Unwanted Violent Fantasy, casual horror, lots of blessings, the original characters are very minor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-31
Updated: 2020-10-31
Packaged: 2021-03-09 03:47:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,605
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27298108
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SylviaW1991/pseuds/SylviaW1991
Summary: An angel and a demon take a holiday to a thoroughly haunted city, and sometimes saving humanity boils down to saving three lives from things unknown.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: Ineffable Ghost Wranglers [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1993135
Comments: 12
Kudos: 30
Collections: Trickety-Boo! Exchange





	Worth Rescuing

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Pyracantha](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pyracantha/gifts).



> Part of the [Trickety-Boo](https://tricketyboo2020.tumblr.com/) gift exchange/Halloween event from the Go Events discord server 🥰
> 
> I don't know how this happened, but it turned into something of a love letter to my favorite place in Florida 🤣 Aziraphale just likes Whetstones, and Crowley just likes the sunshine, lmao  
> There's also some social commentary? This fic did what it wanted. No characters ever listen to me

It was a warm day. Incredibly warm, really, for October. It should've been chilly and raining and, though they'd seen a drizzle, the sun had been overhead and not a single local had so much as lifted an umbrella. And then, well, it had been over. Aziraphale spent the remainder of their first day casting suspicious glances skyward. 

But that was before the Chocolatier. 

Oh, Americans had such different ideas about chocolate and Aziraphale found it Heavenly. Or, well, Earthly, perhaps. Some habits, even long after the world hadn't ended, died hard. The little hole in the wall - somewhere between the United States' oldest schoolhouse and the delightful crêperie they'd had lunch from - was delectable. And packed. He found himself thoroughly glued to his companion, back to front as they moved in tandem through the narrow space. 

Separated by shelves of chocolate - “Oh, Crowley, they have chocolate covered espresso beans; I know you like those.” - was an ice cream and shake section, the waffle cones dipped in all varieties of chocolate. He held a scoop of fudge ripple, tongue peeking out occasionally to sample it whilst he perused the shelves on the back wall. 

“Look, sweet, they have chocolate shells. They're in all manner of flavours.” They'd make a lovely souvenir if they made it beyond their hotel room. He picked two boxes of each variety, adding it to Crowley’s already precarious armful. It wouldn't topple, of course. They didn't expect it to. 

He lifted his cone with a smile, brightening further when Crowley flicked his tongue over the treat. He never refused, and Aziraphale was likely never going to be used to the nearness. Or perhaps he would given another six thousand years. “We'll have to return tomorrow, I think.”

Crowley’s lips quirked. “Sure, angel.”

Aziraphale paused mid-turn, desire to taste that smile waylaid by a case next to the checkout counter. “Oh, truffles!” A whole assortment of chocolate truffles and all manner of other confections, including chocolate dolphins on sticks - of course Aziraphale requested two from the beleaguered young worker who was doing her best - lived under the glass. They would most definitely be returning. Along the top, he discovered individual shells were for sale. 

“Oh, lovely, which would you like to sample?” he cheerfully wondered, receiving a surprised little answer. “Orange it is.” He plucked one out of the bag, and they finally made their way to the checkout. 

Three bottles joined the small mountain Crowley piled onto the counter, Aziraphale’s brows lifting as he realized they were alcoholic. “Oh, good Lord.”

Crowley chuckled, maneuvering so Aziraphale could see the rack of different flavoured dessert and wine chocolate sauces. Amaretto, cabernet, and espresso - each available for sampling. Aziraphale didn't hesitate to part his lips for the little plastic spoon Crowley lifted to his lips, moan sinful as the wine and chocolate coated his tongue. “We'll need a second bottle of that,” he decided, and his wonderful demon was happy to oblige. 

And happy to pay and heft the bags, though when they stepped outside, Aziraphale dug out the single orange-flavoured shell. He offered it to a young girl with a smile. She'd been following them since they'd first passed the schoolhouse, and he found her charming. Mousey brown hair pleated sweetly, her handmade dress neat and tidy, and the buckles on her shoes shining under the Florida sun. “Here we are, my dear. Run along now.”

Crowley watched charred fingers unwrap the foil hesitantly, the dress blowing in the breeze and riddled with burn marks, her shoe buckles blackened. She was a little bit on fire and likely always would be even as she smiled happily at Aziraphale and ate her melting chocolate. She sent them a small wave before turning to run through the throng of people. 

She was hardly the first victim of fire they'd seen, but the angel and the demon saw spirits very differently. 

The bags disappeared to their hotel room. “Where to next, angel?” 

He hummed through another decadent lick of his ice cream. “You know, I'm rather curious about that pirate museum. The inaccuracies are always fascinating.”

“Think we'll get kicked out of this one?” 

“Only if you start writing corrections onto the descriptions, foul fiend, so you'd best control yourself.”

“I make no promises.”

\----

There was a treasure hunt of sorts, little cards offered cheerfully with half-sized pencils, and the information, “We usually do this for kids, but anyone's welcome.”

A nifty way, Aziraphale supposed, to have visitors pay special attention to the artefacts on display. Not that he and Crowley needed it, fascinated as they were by the trinkets and memories behind them. 

They stopped by a large Jolly Roger, one of only three originals left. Four, if one counted a very well-preserved one currently on display in a cottage in the South Downs. Humanity couldn't count what they didn't know, so Aziraphale swatted Crowley’s arm before he could cross the three out. “Stop that, you wily creature.”

“I should be allowed to brag about my pirating accomplishments.”

“Ah, yes. Providing inspiration for a flag so terrifying, it's become a common feature in childrens' programming.” When Crowley glared glarefully at him, Aziraphale hid his smile in the ice cream he wasn't supposed to have in the museum. It hadn't been and would continue to not be noticed. “I also seem to recall you using your musket as a walking stick and several miracles to keep the seasickness at bay.”

“I still did a good job. Inspired loads of blokes and ladies to plunder. Plenty of greed in piracy.” Crowley tipped his head, lips curving in amusement, and Aziraphale dreaded what might come next. “You'd know, being one yourself.”

Unsurprised by the dig, Aziraphale lifted his chin. “ _I_ was a privateer.”

“Right, yeah, a _legal_ pirate.”

“It was perfectly legal.” Aziraphale smartly turned away from the old flag to sashay his way along a bridge over false waters. Crowley followed after him with a grin and plenty more needling over definitions and the semantics involved in legal versus illegal piracy. 

Someone else stepped out of the flag. He was tall, but gaunt. Not suited for a life at sea before he'd been cajoled onto a ship, and rather bitter about the whole thing. 

He left a puddle on the floor, several more drip-drip-dripping along each squishing footstep. He followed the two man-shaped beings room to room, leaving trails of water in his wake until the angel finally took notice of him. 

He sighed, seeing a dry young man who was a bit thin but otherwise quite kempt. His clothes were worn, but neat. It was his eyes that held his nature, burning like hot coals. Aziraphale sighed and laid a hand on Crowley’s arm. “We've disturbed someone, dearest.”

The Sharpie squeaked a little as Crowley finished writing something complimentary about Anne Bonny. She and Mary Read had been great fun each time he'd run across them. He was genuinely glad to see they'd both earned a spot on this wall, so many willing to forget women had been pirates too. And more than just these two. But history favoured old white men for reasons beyond Crowley or Aziraphale. 

When he turned, he saw torn and soaked clothes. He saw blood on the thin bloke's temple, trickling down his cheek, and foam-like vomit clinging to his lips. His skin was a sickly blue and his eyes, yes, were like burning coals. “Left quite a mess.”

Aziraphale hummed around his ice cream cone, taking a bite of the waffle cone as he peered around the spirit to eye the trails of puddles. A simple wave of the hand cleared that up nicely. No need to force any poor janitorial staff to do so and, well, others were likely to come through this museum soon. Aziraphale would hardly leave a mess for anyone to slip on. They might sue the museum. Americans had a poor reputation for that, after all. “You'll take care of him, darling, won't you?” 

“Yeah, yeah. Might want to stand back,” Crowley cautioned and Aziraphale took several steps away. If there was any eagerness, he hid it in his ice cream cone out of sheer habit. 

As much as they didn't work for their respective Head Offices any longer, there were some things it was only right to continue doing. Not for Heaven and Hell, per se, but for humanity. The crossing of souls was best. It was good for them to be cleansed or, ah, damned. Whichever was most appropriate. It was usually simple to tell when one knew what to look for. 

And, oftentimes, it was easy for them to send souls where they belonged. 

The room pulsed. The lights dimmed. Shadows lengthened and thinned like coils of rope. Crowley slid off his sunglasses to reveal eyes golden from corner to corner and smiled with a mouth full of very sharp teeth. Scales crept across his skin, and Aziraphale sank his teeth into his ice cream to give himself enough of a cold shock to tamp down on any distracting things he might want to give voice to. He was handsome as a human, but these signs of what lived underneath... Well. 

The ghost shrieked as the shadows latched on, far more substantial than they appeared. A pool of dark so distinctly devoid of light that Aziraphale’s eyes hurt to look at it for too long formed beneath the spirit's feet. 

“You might want to think about what _you've_ done 'stead of blaming it on everyone else,” Crowley offered, voice a low growl. “You'll likely have plenty of time to do it.”

 _Crack_.

And the old pirate was gone, flung into the quickly sealed pit. 

Crowley turned towards the angel while his power continued to crackle in the air, taking quite a bit of delight in the way his husband eyed him. Aziraphale arched a brow. “Showing off now, dearest?”

“You like it,” he accused, laughing at his angel's arch look and the way he turned away to continue wandering the museum. 

\----

The whole downtown area was rather the same. There was such a heavy mixture of spirits. The benevolent ones just wanted to enjoy more time on Earth and, well, being that they were two beings who also didn’t belong yet wanted more time, an angel and a demon were all too happy to leave those ones be. To give them a spot of the calm interaction they only barely remembered. For some, the simple reminder of humanity meant an opening of the light and the ability to cross. For others, it meant giving warm smiles and zipping off to continue enjoying the crowds of the living. 

Of course, there was also a scattering of Lost Souls. Like the pirate, they were those humans who had hidden from Death. Fearful, they didn’t know what to do or how to cross without his assistance but desperately needed to before becoming vengeful. Sometimes, it happened quickly. A triggering event would envelope them in a deep-seated _something_ that was best dealt with quickly.

They passed the Castillo de San Marcos, both of them pausing at the base of the hill. Groups of children in matching t-shirts were herded by harried adults who constantly counted heads. Teenagers skipping classes walked hand-in-hand or simply near enough to hear one another’s chatter. Mothers and fathers of varying ages pushed strollers. A modern man gazed at the stone fort with such a heavy mixture of awe and hatred that Aziraphale couldn’t help but spill a blessing onto his burdened shoulders. God forbid this young man end up on an eternal march.

Because alongside the living were those shadows of the past. Soldiers carrying muskets, bayonets glinting unnaturally in the sun, marched along the top of the fort. They posed behind canons, calling out orders, firing on ships only Crowley and Aziraphale could see in the harbour. They fired down the sides of the walls on declared enemies, and they were winning. They would always win yet would never stop the fight.

They weren’t fully formed, these ones. They were smudges, smears of repeating moments of intense violence and regret. The darkest smudges relished the fight, the wisps flinching at every shot.

Weeping and struggling Natives were marched into the fort, unnoticed by those rushing around them with pamphlets and trailing after tour guides. Taking their pictures. A few would catch shadows or shimmers of those smudges and blame them on tricks of the light. Some would see features and post them to online forums to varying degrees of belief and scrutiny.

It would take far more than them to clear the deep laid stains away from this place, but that didn’t keep Aziraphale from closing his eyes. With Crowley’s arm loose around his waist, the angel focused and brought down a gentle blessing that washed over the grasses and stones. It wouldn’t entirely cleanse, but it soothed and it added some cheer to the gloom.

“Give a bit of warning before you do that,” Crowley muttered. It was like getting suddenly pinched. Blessings were one thing, _blessings_ another. 

“So sorry, dearest.” But he’d been a soldier once, still was in some ways and always would be. He just had to soothe, and was so grateful to have a partner who understood. Who patiently pressed a kiss to his temple and didn’t say another word about it. “Onward?”

“Yeah, c’mon.”

They didn’t go into the fort, having seen more than enough monuments to human wars, and walked along the water together. For the most part, they were ignored by the living. Another couple wandering downtown or old town, as they called it. They thought. They weren’t entirely certain, but it was so like Americans to call things _old_ as if anything less than five hundred years of age could possibly be considered as such.There were pieces of the oldest remaining bits of the city tucked near the Pirate Museum, ghostly settlers sweeping porches. Children running alongside dogs.

Crowley didn’t look at the children long, and Aziraphale pointed out the absurd miniature golf course by the Lions’ Bridge, advertising that it was the oldest in the city. History enveloped the area even though the modern world was visible with every single selfie taken with the latest mobile telephones, every automobile making its way along the narrow streets.

“What’re you smilin’ about?” Crowley wondered, stopping by one of those lion statues and retrieving his own phone. 

“All of it. All of this old and new, and the lovely way it’s all merged together. They continue to remind me why all of this was worth rescuing.” He went easily when Crowley drew him in, smiling dutifully at the mobile phone when Crowley held it out. He didn’t know how many pictures Crowley had his phone take, but he knew a few surely featured his surprised giggles and Crowley kissing his cheek.

“Mostly worth rescuing.”

“You can’t possibly tell me there’s more trouble here than joy.”

Crowley shrugged, his grin wicked and enchanting. “Maybe it’s even.”

Aziraphale looped an arm through his again, tugging him along when the light changed to allow them to cross the street. “Perhaps it is.”

\----

There were so many homes in this little area, buildings tumbling over one another in evidence of a desire to make a mark, a home. A desire that went further back than humanity, really. 

Their fingers tangled as they walked, hands linking comfortably. They'd made their mark in the world, even though they themselves and others may not have always been aware of the entire sphere of their influence. They’d also made a home, both in one another and in their little seaside cottage. They could respect humanity’s ability and desire to make the same, though they no longer had quiet envy for their freedom. They shared it now. Openly.

But as they turned down a narrow street, any sense of calm or joy faded. They hadn’t gone this route on their way to downtown that morning, and they’d simply allowed their feet to carry them along. Crowley regretted it immediately, feeling the hand in his tighten its grip and slowly let go. Aziraphale liked having his hands free when coming across danger, an old soldier’s instinct that Crowley didn’t even bother to sigh at. He’d never been one for fighting. He could and would when there was no other avenue, but talking and running were his preferred methods of conflict resolution.

There would be no talking to the thing stretching across this street, and with Aziraphale dutifully plodding his way forward there would likely be no running either. He still tried. “Oh, no, come _on_. We don’t have to bother with whatever it is, angel.”

“You don’t have to come along, my dear. I’m perfectly capable of handling this on my own. I’m rather good at, ah, _taming the occult_.”

His little wiggle said otherwise, but he didn’t so much as look back when Crowley dropped his shoulders and rolled his head back with a groan. The lack of acknowledgement was enough sign that he was very serious about this, so running would indeed not be feasible. Bollocks.

“Seeing how I _am_ occult, I say I should get a look.”

“You’re absolutely right, Crowley. Come along. Pip-pip.”

“Ngk.” Crowley trudged after him, his own hands just barely dipping into his pockets.

Whatever it was held darkness, dimming the street. The sun had gone down, but streetlamps and the bright moon overhead shining alongside twinkling stars had provided more than enough light for the two of them. It wasn’t as if Crowley’s sunglasses actually impeded his vision - not when he didn’t want them to - so the dark lenses were certainly not what dimmed this street. There wasn’t even a sudden fog or anything fun like that. It was just a darkness, like a film over a camera lens, that stretched across the entire street. The focus was on a house right in the middle. The streetlamps barely touched the fence, its chainlinks dull and rusted.

There was a For Sale sign creaking ominously in the front yard, the ridiculous _Sold_ taped onto it telling. It was always houses like this, wasn’t it? Poor sods being sold the home of their dream for thousands of pounds - or dollars, considering the location - under the going rate for the neighbourhood. And then, instead of being properly suspicious, the ignorant would excitedly bid on this “dream home.” Then they, like the owners before, would sell it a loss far too quickly for anyone’s comfort.

These were the houses horror stories fed off of. These were the houses that sold best-selling novels and spawned films, copycats, inspired naysayers and believers alike. They were, thankfully, few and far between as most hauntings could be easily explained and handled. Sometimes they were human spirits and other times, they were a demon coming up to stir up some mischief for fun. Occasionally, it was a human-made curse that sunk into floorboards and drywall like a stubborn weed in a pavement crack. Witches or idiots - usually teenage humans, but adults certainly couldn’t be discounted - who thought they understood occult forces better than they did playing with those forces. He and Aziraphale had both seen them unleashing something entirely born of their wild imaginations into the world more than once.

But sometimes...

They gazed up at the house. Something the Americans would call _old_. It was positively modern to the angel and demon, but the thing which lurked inside was ancient. Darkness spilled out of the cracks in the doorframe, long tendrils wisping down the steps to trail across the ground. The drive and front garden were coated in writhing masses of black, the coils climbing up the fence and spilling through the diamond-shaped holes. It reached for them, seeking to curl around their corporations and drag them viciously into its dwelling. Malice lived here, and it was hungry.

Lights did their best to cut through the formless night, the front windows covered by curtains that didn’t quite hide the shadows of humans moving within. 

Aziraphale straightened his shoulders and opened the gate, glancing back at Crowley with an arched brow. He grumbled, shoulders, eyes, neck all rolling whilst a groan spilled from him. But then he waved a hand, and the angel smiled brightly. “After you, dearest.”

“Mngh. Not how we’re s’posed to be spending our vacation,” he complained, little heat in it as he sauntered through the gate. His footfalls cut through the dark, the tendrils desperate to reach out and grasp but unable to take hold. 

They didn’t touch Aziraphale either, his steps carefully measured as he walked alongside his partner. They reached the door together, but it was Aziraphale who reached his hand up and knocked. Three quick raps. “I do wish doorknockers hadn’t fallen out of fashion.”

“They were annoying.”

“Well, not everyone pinched their knuckles when using them, my dear. Some of us actually knew what we were doing.”

“I’ll go to the hotel without you,” Crowley threatened.

Aziraphale’s nose didn’t turn up, but his tone implied it. “By all means, go right ahead. Don’t let me stop you.”

Crowley’s scowl deepened. “Angel-”

The door opened, and a prisoner opened it. She smiled, bright and cheerful, but there were bands of ink about her wrists, her ankles, her throat. Her teeth were stained black, eyes empty pools like twin new moons. None of it was smooth, however, the darkness flickering over her like static. “Hello,” she greeted, and she certainly sounded normal. “Uh. Can I help you?”

Aziraphale took point, smile soft and kind. “Actually, my dear lady, I think it’s us who can help you. May we?”

“Um.”

“S’about your ghost,” Crowley added, and they watched her knuckles whiten on the door.

“We- Um. Listen, I don’t know who sent you-”

“Doesn’t matter.” Crowley waved her aside and stepped in, leaving her thoroughly bewildered over the fact that she’d stepped back and let him in at all.

Aziraphale, at least, gave her an apologetic smile as he entered. “We technically weren’t sent to this house in particular. We’re actually having ourselves a bit of a holiday.”

“Babe, what-”

With a snap and a rush of demonic energy, the world stilled. Mostly. Crowley circled the man who’d started to rise from the dining room table. The sketchy tendrils had encircled him much the same as they had his significant other, but he had the extra benefit of having to suffer two twitching hand-like shapes grasping his shoulders. Guiding him, Crowley suspected, studying a link between him and the knife block in the kitchen. Not a _great_ sign. Worse was the way the darkness continued to writhe and twist and splinter even with time having been stopped.

“What d’you think we’re dealing with here, angel?”

“Well, I-” It vanished.

The two of them stared at the humans, back and forth a few times in fascination. They both reached out with different senses, several multi-coloured eyes shimmering across Aziraphale’s corporation. Behind his sunglasses, Crowley’s eyes went entirely golden. They studied the humans, the room, the front garden again, and even the knife block. They went upstairs and searched each and every room, but saw no sign of the vicious thing which lived in the home. Unfortunately, they could _feel_ it.

It went beyond their corporations, trying to cloud Aziraphale’s eyes without being seen. Plucking at the feathers of their wings, even tucked away as they were. It bled into spaces only they had access to.

They exchanged looks and Aziraphale’s eyes vanished. With another snap, time resumed. 

“-’s going on? Who are these people?”

Soft and kind wasn’t the right direction to take, so it was Crowley’s turn. “You invited us in. Desssperate for someone to take care of your little ghost problem, yeah? You called us, and now you’re going to do as we sssay.” The original tempter smiled and, to the two humans, his voice held something Extra. He reached their minds with ease, his coils as effective as the thing which lived in this house, and his husband just watched with an indulgent smile. It wasn’t something he reached for often, his mischief often broader of scope and his own ego insisting that he cheat as little as possible when tempting. This was more than that. “Right?”

They both nodded, eyes a little glazed and dazed, but it only lasted a moment before they internalized Crowley’s words. Their imaginations filled in the blanks from there. She closed the door, and smiled. “Can I offer you anything? Coffee or tea or anything?”

As much as Aziraphale wanted to say yes - he did like American sweet tea - he shook his head. “Thank you, but I believe we should get to work.”

“Where’s your equipment?” the man wondered.

“We have what we need,” Crowley assured him, eyes glinting behind dark lenses. It was enough.

“Tell me, how long have you been here?”

“Just a few days,” she replied, smile apologetic. “That’s why we haven’t finished unpacking. That and...”

“The boxes move,” he admitted.

Aziraphale took a seat at the table, hands folding neatly atop the wooden surface. “Do tell.”

\----

Cold. Bathrooms were never this cold after a shower, not here. Sure, it was getting to be fall, but fall in Florida didn’t _really_ mean fall. The only trees that changed were the extra sensitive ones, and they were few and far between. The beach was available for taking advantage of year round. The window was even open, the air outside muggy and hot.

But still, hot water steaming off her skin, she shivered.

Wrapping herself in a towel, she reached for her hairbrush and began running it through her hair. Despite the chill, her shoulders relaxed and her eyes closed. The brushstrokes were soothing, despite the knock at the bathroom door. 

_Tap tap._

“Just a minute, hon.”

_Tap tap._

She sighed. Eyes opening as she turned her head, she stepped to the door and cracked it open to tell him she’d be out in a minute. The hall was empty, but she heard another knock. She looked to the open window and saw nothing.

_Tap tap._

She looked at the mirror. Her reflection smiled, lifted a fist. _Tap tap._

\----

It had been a long day of unpacking. The nap was inevitable. The creature when he awoke at 7:36 p.m. wasn’t.

It didn’t walk, nor did it seem to have legs. It just _was_. It _was_ by the bedroom door and now it _was_ next to the bed. In the bed. Like a void of black scribbles, it poured itself down his throat. Choked him, smothered him, made him thrash and shout and then it gave him a knife.

It helped him out of bed, the taste of ashen ink on his tongue and his gaze only allowing pinholes of light to be seen. Everything around those pinholes was like a sketchy outline, his peripheral vision traded for scratching lines.

Shuddering, unable to walk without hands that weren’t hands pushing one foot in front of the other, he made his way downstairs. It let his wife’s name slide out of his lips, a questioning call that sounded like him. His vocal cords didn’t seem to be vibrating, but his voice yelled her name again. He found her in the kitchen. He smiled. The voice said her name again and she turned.

She screamed.

She gasped.

She gurgled.

With every dig the blade made into his wife’s supple breast the easier it became to breath. Warm red spattered the bed, his arms, the wall and even the ceiling as he ripped into her again and again a _nd again and-_

He woke with a start, swallowed hard, and glanced at the clock. 7:35 p.m.

The door creaked open, and he fled the house.

\----

Aziraphale clasped his hands together tightly, taking several deep breaths before he looked Crowley’s way. Neither of them reached into humans like that. Neither of them wanted to, but the thing wrapped around them necessitated it. 

He cleared his throat and smiled at the two humans. “Why don’t we step outside?” he Suggested. They walked out the door with hardly a murmur of agreement. “Dearest?”

“I’ve got it.” He made his way up the stairs, long legs taking them two and three at a time, and Aziraphale went into the kitchen. He hummed to himself as he plugged the sink, letting the basin fill with water, searched for their glasses in the cupboards to fill those as well.

When the tap began to spit black oil, Aziraphale laid his hand on the faucet and blessed the pipes. A scream reverberated through the walls, the cupboards collapsing. Dishes shattered, the angel only just convincing the shards to miss him “Don’t turn on any of the taps!” he called, his husband’s muffled agreement putting him at ease.

When the filled glasses began to pop and burst, he picked up a few plastic cups - hooray for small children - and took a few steps back with a quiet sigh. It was simpler if the water was in a container, but he could deal with it in puddles as well. It wasn’t difficult to bless, after all, and only took a bit of effort. In a flash, the room lightened. A lamp behind him switched on, the light buzzing brighter and brighter until the bulb birst, and Aziraphale sighed again. “How terribly dramatic. Is there truly such a need for this?” he scolded, and bent down to smack at an invisible coil wrapping around his ankle. “I beg your pardon.”

And then he was in Hell.

Aziraphale sucked in a sharp breath, recognizing the scene instantly. It had been years, but he would never forget that farce of a trial. He would never forget watching Michael pour and pour and pour holy water into a tub through Crowley’s eyes, struggling to hide his reaction, his utter horror. That Heaven would do this, that they would cross such a line - it was worse than the way Sandalphon had punched him, worse than Metatron’s insistence that the written plan was the only plan, worse than the Quartermaster calling him a pathetic excuse for an angel, worse than centuries upon centuries of being looked at as _less_. The angels had instead taken their holiest of weapons to their _enemies_ , without any sense of irony, and had poured it with easy smugness. It had been _easy_ to try and ruin his demon. His selfless, patient, kind, clever demon.

Aziraphale had been in the body then, but he wasn’t now. He was held, suspended, and it was only Crowley who shrank back from the tub and tried to protest and tempt and convince everyone present that he didn’t have to die. Aziraphale closed his eyes, but Crowley’s desperation rang in his ears and the drag of his heels against the concrete, Hastur’s chuckle low and pleased, burned in his heart. “I may not sleep, but I know what dreams and visions are. This is not what happened. This-”

He squeezed his eyes shut tighter as Crowley’s voice made a sound Aziraphale had never heard and refused to ever hear again. “This is a farce, one which I already dealt with.” He blessed the actual water in his cup and spilled it onto the concrete at his feet. It ate away to the carpet beyond, splashing the vision into cracks, and he turned away to find the door and step outside. If he stumbled a little, that was his business, and he was quick to go beyond the gate entirely and leave that poison behind.

\----

Crowley made his way upstairs quickly, peeking into each door. He could see it now. It wasn’t shaped like a person or an animal, though its shape rarely stayed the same for long. It was difficult not to linger on those static edges, but he huffed in irritation at each room as if it was empty and moved onto the next.

As he passed the bathroom, he winced hard as a frisson of Aziraphale’s energy shot through the pipes. The sink and shower spit holy water from their faucets, the toilet overflowing with the force of the blessing. He gingerly reached for the door to close it, hearing Aziraphale’s muffled call to not touch any of the pipes.

“Wasn’t planning on it!” he snapped back, shutting the door firmly. The entire bathroom felt holy, its brightness stinging a little. He could almost empathise with the scream that seemed to come from the very walls. Almost. The thing here wasn’t anymore demonic than it was angelic.

The little girl wasn’t asleep. She was looking at her closet and, when Crowley filled her open doorway, she whipped her head to the side to look at him. He knew he didn’t immediately project that calm _be not afraid_ energy that Aziraphale could, but cocked his head to the side and smiled anyway. “Hi. Emma, wasn’t it? What’re you playin’ with?”

She wasn’t old enough to be more afraid of strangers than of monsters in her closet, so held up her doll. It was a stuffed animal. A white unicorn with multi-coloured hooves and horn which Crowley approved of. “Pixy. She helps me scare the bad thing away.”

“The bad thing?”

She nodded, curls bouncing as she sucked her thumb into her mouth. “Mmhm. It’s in my closet,” she faux-whispered, and Crowley stepped into the room and peeked in. He couldn’t see a closet. It was as if someone had taken a black pen and scribbled across the entire wall, messily blotting it out. Crowley reached through it, quietly turning off his ability to feel cold so he wouldn’t react to it, and found a pull chain with ease. Whether or not it existed because he expected that sort of light in an American closet was beyond even him, but he was glad the closet illuminated. The shape writhed and twisted into that of a man, but Crowley only shook his head and clicked the light back off. 

“I don’t see anything.” She still looked terrified, so he crossed the room and took down the little safety bars on the side of her bed. Ridiculous. They kept her trapped as much as they kept her safe. “Why don’t we go downstairs if you’re scared? Your mum and dad might like to come have a look, yeah? They’re experts.”

She reached up and he scooped her up, settling her on his hip. He stepped out of her bedroom and onto a bandstand where his husband didn’t hesitate. _Not lovers, not even friends. It was all an act. It’s never been anything but. I’m going back to the bookshop, dear boy. You’re simply not worth it._

There was still a weight on his hip, he realized, even though a glance towards his hip showed nothing. Crowley took a deep breath and walked forward, towards this Aziraphale and his hateful words. His _I never want to talk to you again._ And then he simply walked through him, the vision disappearing like smoke and a little girl clinging to his blazer and her favourite toy with equal trust.

They made it downstairs with the darkness dripping down the walls and soaking into the carpets. Crowley’s normally soundless footfalls squelched as if he was stepping into something wet, but there was nothing but that inky night. The sky before the stars, he remembered, as he carried the girl outside. He went beyond the gate, and this Aziraphale had worry in bright eyes and _darling_ on his tongue, and Crowley finally let himself feel cold so he could feel the warmth of Aziraphale’s hands covering one of his own. 

“Are you alright?”

“M’fine.”

The careful scan Aziraphale made of him, his many eyes briefly flickering across a space only Crowley could see soothed both of them. No one had harmed Crowley, and Aziraphale continued to choose him. Aziraphale looked down at the little girl and smiled, gentle and serene, and the girl smiled back even though she kept her cheek on Crowley. “Hello, little dear.”

“Hi.”

Carefully, Aziraphale beckoned towards the family vehicle. Her parents were already behind the wheel, so it reversed until Aziraphale could open the backdoor. Crowley bundled the little girl into the carseat, successfully buckling her in out of Expectation rather than any actual knowledge. “Do they have anything important they need to take?”

“No. Luckily, their entire box of photo albums is at his mother’s home. She’s been making them a scrapbook.”

“Ohh. How’s that going?”

“Splendidly. She even has little Emma’s baby book.” When Crowley stepped back, Aziraphale stepped forward and stroked her hair. “It’s terribly late, my dear girl. Sleep now, and dream of whatever it is you like best.” As she nodded off, her unicorn pillowed against her cheek, Aziraphale closed the door. “Have a lovely, blessed evening,” he wished, and the tendrils clinging to the tires and reaching into the engine vanished in a small burst of light.

As the humans drove off, Crowley pushed his fingers into his pockets. “Their important documents?”

“With her father, actually. He’s been worried about the possibility of faulty wiring in this old home. They did get it for such a pittance, after all. He’s convinced something’s wrong with it.”

“There is.”

“Yes, I thought so as well. And the plumbing’s acting up. Terrible, really.”

“The worst,” Crowley agreed. “Insurance is going to be a mess.”

“I disagree.”

Crowley’s eyes danced behind his sunglasses. “I can’t have _any_ fun?”

“My dear, there is already smoke pouring out of their attic and don’t think for even a moment that I missed you closing the neighbours’ blinds. You’ve had plenty of fun.”

He hummed and, maybe, a few more stuffed animals made their way into the backseat of the retreating car. The fire that ripped across the roof, eating at insulation as it chased the darkness away, was racing through the walls and eating at everything not already soaked in holy water. The flickering flames played in dark sunglasses, guided by a demon’s wiles, and Crowley slipped an arm around Aziraphale’s waist as a black mass tumbled across the front garden. 

They simply crossed the street, and the lawn sprinklers kicked on. A little harder to bless, a little more focus required, but it was simple enough with his husband’s unwavering support beside him. They stayed until the flickering flames threatened the neighbours’ homes. They stayed until they heard the sirens, saw the firetruck. They stayed until they could approach the leader and explain that the family was gone for the night, and no one ought to go inside. It was not safe.

They stayed until they couldn’t feel the thing in the air any longer.

And then, side by side, they resumed the walk towards their hotel. Eventually, the little family would return. Miraculously, another home was getting prepared to go up for sale nearby that would be in their price range. The community would be moved by their plight, donations pouring in (along with a few bitter entitled folks complaining about unrelated instances because, well, Crowley had to have a _little_ mischief), and soon they’d be okay again.

They wouldn’t remember the unusual couple who’d come to their door, nor would they recall why they’d felt the need to leave their home so late to begin with. The insurance adjuster would forget why that was an unusual detail and everything would really go quite swimmingly.

An angel and a demon would continue their holiday together, adding light to the darkness wherever it was found.

**Author's Note:**

> 🦇 Happy Halloween, all! 🎃


End file.
